


"CHiPs" 2017 Season 1/Episode 1 "Welcome to Central"

by Firebuff51 (DCMUFics)



Series: "CHiPs" 2017 [1]
Category: CHiPs (TV)
Genre: Gen, Modern Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9651941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCMUFics/pseuds/Firebuff51
Summary: A modern day version of "CHiPs". A motorcycle theft ring is plaguing Los Angeles. Ponch bets the other officers that he can get a date with a female officer newly transferred to Central. Jon has a run in with a celebrity. Sindy Cahill nears the end of her probationary period as she strives to become Central's newest motor officer.





	

“CHiPs” 2017  
Episode 1.1

On a clear blue morning, the Channel 5 News helicopter soared high above the sprawling mass that was the Los Angeles freeway system.

“If you have to head to work, it's a beautiful morning,” the pilot reported to several thousand viewers. “What's not beautiful is the stalled big rig on the 170 at Franklin that has traffic snarled all the way back to...whoops, hang on...looks like we've got a pursuit. Can we zoom in? Yep, looks like the CHP is in pursuit of a yellow motorcycle headed south down the 101 at...”

“Attention Hollywood Freeway units, 15-7 is in pursuit of a 10851 yellow motorcycle southbound passing Cahuenga,” the CHP dispatcher announced. “Any unit in position to intercept?”

Officer Barry Baricza deftly guided his black and white Dodge Charger through the morning traffic, doing his best to keep track of the racing motorcycle. The cars ahead of him had begun to slow in all lanes and he knew that he was about to lose sight of the suspect who would easily navigate the gridlock.

“L.A., 15-7,” he called into his radio. “Do we have any motor units in the area to assist? I'm about to lose the suspect and-”

In his rear view mirror, he caught a glimpse of rapidly approaching red and blue lights. He smiled as two BMW motorcycles zoomed past his cruiser, sirens wailing.

Officer Jon Baker closed in on the suspect as his partner Frank Poncherello  
kept pace with him. The suspect, wearing a red helmet, was fairly confident that he would lose the pursuing patrol car as he sped between the columns of slowed vehicles. He glanced back over his shoulder and felt sick as he saw two motorcycle officers gaining on him.

The suspect gunned his motor and screamed ahead until he found a gap between a minivan and a dump truck. He cut across the lanes and made his way along the shoulder of the freeway.

The officers deftly guided their motorcycles between the lanes and continued the pursuit, drawing closer and closer until eventually, the suspect headed for the off-ramp.

“L.A., 7-Mary 3, suspect is exiting the 101 at Hollywood,” Baker called into his helmet's microphone as he and Poncherello leaned into a right turn onto the boulevard.

“L.A., 15-5, I'm two away,” the voice of Officer Gene Fritz called over their radios.

Exchanging the freeway for surface streets made the pursuit even more dangerous than it already was. The officers had to be mindful of vehicles heading in opposing directions as well as cross-traffic at intersections, not to mention the dangers posed towards pedestrians.

At this hour of the morning, traffic was relatively light, but the officers knew that on Hollywood Boulevard, that could change at any moment. The suspect sped between two buses and roared off down the boulevard. Baker and Poncherello were forced to maneuver around the bus on the outside, causing them to fall behind in their chase.

As the suspect approached the junction of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue, Fritz's patrol car screeched to a halt in the intersection, causing the suspect to swerve to avoid it and drive his motorcycle onto the sidewalk. 

Baker slowed to a stop, but his partner, known at times to be a bit impetuous,  
jumped the curb and sped after the suspect unabated.

“Aw come on, Ponch,” Baker muttered as he steered past the patrol car.

The early bird tourists and venders were forced to scatter as the two motorcycles sped down the famous Hollywood Walk of Fame and raced past the Hollywood and Highland entertainment complex.

As they passed the Kodak Theatre, the suspect left the sidewalk for the boulevard. This lasted momentarily as he was forced back onto the sidewalk by a Star Line tour bus attempting to change lanes. 

The suspect had to brake and turn hard to the right to avoid a large crowd of tourists disembarking from a bus. He skidded and lost control of his bike, laying down the yellow motorcycle. He tumbled to the pavement, coming to a rest in the courtyard of the Chinese Theatre.

Poncherello rolled to a stop, then stepped from his motor and drew his pistol, training it on the stunned suspect.

“Don't move! On your stomach!” he called. “Hands out at your sides!”

Baker stopped his motor in the street just ahead of the black and white. He  
quickly moved forward and dropped to a knee as he handcuffed the suspect, then searched him and pulled him to his feet.

Poncherello holstered his weapon and keyed the mic on his shoulder.

“L.A., 15-7-Mary-4, show Code 4, one in custody.”

“7-Mary-4, L.A.,” replied the dispatcher. “Code 4, one in custody. KRB411 is clear at 0945.”

Baker unbuckled the suspect's helmet and pulled it off to reveal a young man with red hair, breathing heavily.

“Damn, you guys can ride,” the suspect coughed.

“You know it,” Poncherello smirked as they led the man towards Fritz's patrol car.

“You're really something, Ponch.” Baker shook his head. “I mean, chasing him down the sidewalk? Even for you, that's stretchin' it.”

“Hey, what can I say, Partner? Couldn't let 'im get away.”

Fritz opened the back door of his patrol car.

“You better hope Getraer doesn't hear about this,” said the athletic black officer.

Baker nodded to the crowd of approaching tourists.

“I think that ship's about to sail.”

“Please, can we...to take picture?” asked a portly man with a German accent.

Baker dropped his head and sighed as the suspect squinted up at the man. 

Poncherello gave a thumbs up and flashed a glowing smile as the tourists snapped their pictures.

“Welcome to Central”

The next morning.

The Central Los Angeles office of the California Highway Patrol was a white, one story building with a blue slanted roof, encircled fifty feet above by the junction of the Harbor and Santa Monica freeways.

Officers came and went as another shift change neared. Bonnie Clark pulled the duffel bag from the trunk of her car and stared for a moment at the building. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of traffic rushing past on the freeways above. This place was so much different than her last assignment in Northern California at the CHP's Napa office, and it was light years from her home state of Iowa.

Ponch and Jon rolled through the gate riding tandem on their black and white motors.

“Who is that?” Ponch asked as he watched the blond haired officer stroll towards the office.

Jon smiled.

“I don't know, but I'm sure you'll find out.” 

Baricza leaned against the open door of his cruiser as he watched them pull to a stop alongside the other motorcycles.

“I don't know, Ponch,” he smirked. “I think she's gonna shut you down.”

“Really, Bear?”, Ponch replied as he unstrapped his helmet. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch.”

Ponch slipped off his helmet and hung it over one of his bike's mirrors. 

“Care to make it interesting?”

Jon stepped off of his motor and ran a hand through his short blond hair.

“Wait a minute, Ponch. Are you really gonna take bets on whether or not you can get a date with the new girl?”

“I'll take that action,” said Jeb Turner, a tall black officer with a thick mustache as he approached, war bag in hand.

“Count me in,” Baricza laughed as he closed his door.

“Okay then, gentlemen,” Ponch stepped from his bike. “Fifty big ones says I can get a date with her by tomorrow. Fritz, you in?”

Fritz raised his hands as he jogged up the office's front steps.

“Gotta recuse myself, Ponch,” he laughed. “She's riding with me. I might influence her.”

“Come on, partner,” said Jon. “Get a move on and we actually might make briefing on time for once.”

Several minutes later, they took their usual seats at one of the long tables at the very back of the station's briefing room.

Jon lifted the lid from his cup of coffee and took a sip. He glanced down at the tall can of Red Bull and pack of chocolate Zingers before his partner.

“I don't get it, Ponch. How can you put that...stuff in your body? I mean, like every shift?”

“Hey, I gotta stay amped, partner,” Ponch replied. “I gotta stay pumped. It keeps me on my toes, ya know?”

“I'm just amazed that your nerves aren't shot.”

Ponch popped open the can of energy drink and offered it to him.

“Want a sip?”

Jon shook his head.

“I think I'll stay with the devil I know, thanks.”

Ponch shrugged, then guzzled from the can before taking a large bite of his snack cake. 

Sindy Cahill walked into the room wearing a motor officer's uniform, a blue and gold helmet tucked under one arm and her chestnut colored hair pulled back into a tight braid.

“Mornin', boys,” she smiled, taking a seat at the table across the aisle from them.

“There she is, Central's newest motor cop,” Jon smiled. “You're in Phase Three now. Miss your cruiser yet?”

“Not on your life, Jon,” Sindy replied. “I've wanted to be a motor officer from the minute I graduated the Academy. I'm not going back now.”

“Phase Three already?” asked Ponch. “Time flies.”

“Field break-in's two hundred and forty hours. It's almost done and I'm loving every minute of it,” Sindy beamed. “Well almost. My MTO's quite the stickler. Watches me like a hawk.”

“Ah, yes. You're MTO.” Jon nodded.

“Her MTO,” replied Artie Grossman, a chubby officer who entered and took a seat next to Sindy. “and grouse if you must, but I take my duties as a motor training officer seriously. I just want you to pass your probation with  
flying colors.”

Sergeant Getraer, a man in his early forties with short brown hair that grayed at his temples, entered the room, a leather notebook tucked under one arm.

“Alright. Settle down, people.” he took his place at the podium at the front of the room, sighing as he opened the notebook. “Now, I know that we've all been through the training classes regarding social media. Every cop in here knows that from the moment they hit the streets, there could be a camera pointed at them. Probably several. Heck, this is L.A.; it's almost guaranteed. That's why I can't figure out, for the life of me, why some of you just haven't caught onto this fact.”

Ponch grimaced and sank down in his seat.

“Oh no, Poncherello,” said Getraer. “Sit up. I want you to have a good view of this.”

He turned and used a remote control to switch on a large flat screen monitor behind him.

Instantly, a YouTube video appeared on the screen titled 'CHP Drives Over  
Walk of Fame'. The other officers in the room laughed as they watched the shaky video captured by a tourists' cell phone that featured Ponch chasing the stolen motorcycle down the sidewalk. He switched to a second amateur video which showed the suspect landing on the pavement in front of the Chinese Theatre, which elicited applause from the officers in the room.

Getraer paused the video and held up several photocopied pages.

“Shall I read the tweets, Frank?”

“Come on, Sarge,” Ponch replied. “in my defense...”

Getraer threw a dismissive hand at him. 

“I'd like to just chalk it up to one of those things that couldn't be avoided, but with you...”

“Hey, really, Sarge,” Jon spoke up. “Ponch didn't really have a...” 

“Save it, Baker. You're supposed to be keeping him in line, remember?”

“Uh, Sarge,” Ponch cleared his throat. “This dude on the stolen bike...the one I caught yesterday, do you think he might help lead us to that ring that's been stealing motorcycles the last couple of weeks?”

“No such luck, Frank,” the sergeant replied. “Turns out the kid was just out for a joyride. We've had a few new transfers the last few days, so for those who aren't up to speed, we have a motorcycle theft ring working in the area. These guys have been targeting late model Yamahas and Suzukis exclusively. They're chopping up the bikes and selling the plastic shells. Now, this is due to the fact that the metal parts, like the engines and carburetors are too hard to sell because they're easily traceable by the serial numbers. Some of the bikes have been simply hot-wired and taken, however, several witnesses to the thefts have also reported that the suspects lifted the bikes onto the back of a pickup and disappeared. Division Auto Theft is setting up a task force with LAPD and the Sheriffs as we speak. Any information, be sure to kick it over to them.”

Ponch sank back in his seat.

“I was really hoping that bust would improve my credit with Getraer,” he mumbled.

Jon sipped his coffee.

“We'll get him, Ponch.”

“Next order of business,” the Sergeant continued. “Let's all welcome Bonnie Clark. She's transferring down from the Napa office. She'll be riding with Fritz. Make her feel welcome.”

Bonnie sheepishly waved to the other officers before fumbling with her notepad.

“Last order of business,” Getraer closed his notebook. “the I-5 off-ramp at Adams is still under construction until at least next week. That's it. Hit the bricks. And stay off of YouTube!”

The officers pushed back from the tables and began to file out of the room.

Grossman extended a hand to Bonnie as he approached.

“Arthur Grossman. What brings you down from Napa?”

She smiled politely as she shook his hand.

“Uh...just felt it was time for a change, I guess.”

“Well, welcome to-” 

Ponch elbowed Grossman aside.

“Hi, Frank Poncherello, but everybody calls me Ponch. Just wanted to say welcome to Central.”

“You mean, like I was about to?” Grossman mumbled.

“Look,” Ponch ignored him. “If you'd like somebody to show you around, you know, help you get acquainted with L.A., I'd be happy to...”

“No thanks.” Bonnie grabbed her baton and notebook from the table in front of her. “Nice video, though. Hope it goes viral.”

She stepped past him and followed Grossman out of the room.

“Did it just get cold in here?” Fritz laughed.

Sindy gathered her helmet and gloves.

“You're losin' your touch, Ponch.”

Baricza slapped Ponch's shoulder as he passed.

“Told ya.”

Jon held the door for his partner.

“Come on, old buddy. After that, there's nowhere to go today but up.” 

Ten minutes later, Ponch and Jon were cruising down the Harbor Freeway. Jon glanced over at his partner and smiled.

“She's really gotten in your head, hasn't she?” he called.

Ponch shrugged.

“Who?”

“Whattaya mean 'who'? Bonnie Clark. Are you really into her, or is it the fact that she didn't instantly melt when faced with the ol' Poncherello charm?”

“I don't get it, man. She didn't even seem a little interested.”

“Maybe she just doesn't date other cops.”

“Yeah.” Ponch smiled. “But I'm not just another cop.”

Jon nodded.

“You can say that again.”

Just then, a silver Mercedes-Benz SLR sped past them on the right, narrowly avoiding Jon before continuing on down the freeway.

“I don't believe it!” Jon snapped. 

He checked traffic over his shoulder before changing lanes ahead of Ponch. They activated their red and blue LED's as they raced after the sports car.

The sleek automobile changed lanes and continued down the off-ramp, maintaining its speed as if the driver were oblivious to the rapidly approaching motor officers.

Ponch and Jon hit their sirens as they followed the Mercedes onto surface streets. Two blocks later, the car finally pulled to the curb beside a vacant lot.

“L.A., 15-7-Mary 3 and 4,” Jon called into his mic as they rolled to a stop behind the car. “Show us on a traffic stop, Westbound Hoover just south of Alameda. California: 7-Tom-Adam-Robert-6-6-1.”

“I'm contact, you're cover?” offered Ponch, stepping off of his bike.

“No,” said Jon as he grabbed his pinch book from one of his motor's saddle bags. “This one's mine.”

He stalked to the driver's window as Ponch stepped onto the sidewalk, hand resting on the grip of his pistol as he provided cover for his partner.

“Driver's license, registration and proof of insurance,” Jon said tersely.

A beautiful young, dark haired woman stared up at him from behind a pair of over-sized, vintage sunglasses as she lowered her window.

“What did I do now?” she asked.

“May I see your driver's license, registration and proof of insurance?” Jon repeated. “Now.”

The woman retrieved the requested paperwork and handed it to Jon.

“Now, may I ask what-”

“Sit tight for a minute.”

He walked back to the rear of the car and began to fill out a citation.

“You okay, partner?” asked Ponch.

Jon shook his head as he wrote.

“Other than the fact that she almost turned me into a pancake on the freeway? Naw, I'm just peachy.”

“15-Mary 3, L.A.,” the dispatcher called. “7-Tom-Adam-Robert-6-6-1, comes back not hot, to a 2013 Mercedes-Benz SLR, Los Feliz. R.O. Is a last of Milan, first of Vanessa. No wants, no warrants.”

Ponch perked up.

“Vanessa Milan? The actress? Is that really her?”

“Uh, I dunno. I think so,” Jon replied, copying down the car's license plate number.

Ponch adjusted his Sam Browne belt and breathed into his palm to check his breath. As Jon made his way back to the driver's window, Ponch peered through the passenger side window and flashed a smile.

“Okay, ma'am,” Jon said. “I'm citing you for speeding, unsafe lane change and talking on your cell phone while driving. I saw you hang up as you pulled to the curb.”

“Are you serious?” the woman replied, calmly incredulous. “I admit, I may have a bit of a lead foot, but I'm a very safe driver otherwise and-”

Jon pursed his lips and held the ticket book for her.

“If you could just sign here, Ma'am. Signing is not an admission of guilt, simply an agreement to-”

“Do you know who I am?” the driver asked coldly. “Vanessa Milan. You know, the actress? People treat me with just a bit more respect. My publicist can make things very unpleasant for you. All I have to do is make one phone-”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Jon snapped. “Do you know who I am? I'm Officer Baker, California Highway Patrol. I'm the cop that you almost ran down back there. I'm the cop who's citing you for endangering the public because of that lead foot of yours. Now please, sign on the bottom line.”

The woman sighed audibly and signed the ticket. Jon detached it from his book and handed it back to her along with her paperwork.

“Have a nice day,” he replied as he walked back to his bike.

Ponch watched the Mercedes merge back into traffic.

“Wow. Talk about hot.”

“Is that all you think about, Ponch?” Jon sighed as he placed his pinch book back in the saddlebag.

Ponch laughed.

“Not her, man. You. You seem pretty steamed.”

“Can you blame me?” Jon climbed back onto his bike. “I mean, she almost hit me.”

“I know.” Ponch settled back onto his motorcycle. “Just seems like there was something more behind it.”

Jon draped a wrist over his windshield.

“I've told you before about my old partner, Gary. He was killed chasing a speeder. They just get to me some days.”

“I can't blame you,” Ponch said as he started his motor. “She was hot, though.”

Jon revved his engine.

“Maybe a little,” he smirked.

Each officer checked over their shoulder before pulling back into traffic.

 

XXXXXX

Sindy and Grossman sat on their motorcycles in front of a public park, watching traffic pass by.

“Projected stopping distance at sixty miles per hour?” asked Grossman, hands resting on the grips of his handlebars.

“Come on, Grossie...” Sindy sighed.

“Projected stopping distance?”

She sighed as she picked at one of her tan riding gloves.

“One-thirty-six point five.”

“Is it advisable to lane split when traffic is over thirty miles per hour?”

“No. It is not advisable.” Sindy slipped off her sunglasses. “Grossman, I appreciate that you take being a motor training officer seriously, but honestly, you're driving me a little crazy with the constant pop quizzes. I've got one day left on probation. I can even respond to calls now.”

“I do take it seriously. I know how badly you've wanted to be a motor officer and I want to make sure that you stay one. But,” he exhaled in resignation. “I also don't want to burn you out. So...change of subject?”

“Okay,” Sindy looked at him. “How's the diet going?”

“All right,” he sighed. “Down two more pounds this week. I do miss the chili dogs from Carney's, though.”

“I know a good organic cafe and it's on our beat. We can have lunch there-”

Sindy paused as she focused her attention on the parking lot of a convenience store across the street. She watched a man wearing a set of black and red riding leathers kneel beside a motorcycle.

“Interesting...” she mused, slipping her shades back on.

“What do you see?” asked Grossman.

“That guy across the street, wearing the leathers. He was leaning against the wall for a good two or three minutes, just staring at that red Suzuki and now he's crouching beside it.”

“So?”

“So why would he just stand there staring at his own bike?”

They watched as the man looked around cautiously. His view of the officers was obscured by cars in the parking lot. He slipped on a black helmet then climbed onto the motorcycle before backing it out of its parking space.

“He didn't start it with the key.” Grossman's motor growled to life.

Sindy nodded as she started her own bike.

“Because he hot wired it!”

The rider left the parking lot and the officers followed. He checked his left side view mirror and caught a glimpse of Grossman's motorcycle. He glanced back over his shoulder at them before accelerating.

“He made us!” Sindy called as she rode on Grossman's right.

“L.A., 15-Mary-5,” Grossman called. “In pursuit of a 10851 red Suzuki motorcycle, eastbound Ventura from Del Mar!”

The officers activated their lights and sirens as they sped after the suspect.

 

The rider leaned into a right turn, picking up more speed.

“L.A., 15-6-2,” Turner called over their radios. “Backing Mary-5 from Lincoln and Oak. I'm two away.”

The officers followed him as they attempted to keep pace. The suspect popped a wheelie as he sped through a red light at the next intersection, causing two cars to screech to a halt. 

Sindy and Grossman weaved between the stopped cars expertly as they continued their pursuit.

“L.A., 15-Mary-5, we're now southbound Lima passing Lake Street.”, Grossman reported.

The suspect descended a hill with the two officers right on his tail. He leaned into a sharp left turn, cutting off a red BMW which veered directly into the path of the approaching officers.

Grossman skidded to avoid the car and was forced to lay down his bike.  
He was thrown to the ground as the motorcycle slid across the pavement and flipped over, leaving a path of shattered plastic and metal in its wake.

“L.A., 15-Mary-5-Adam. Officer down, Lima and 4th,” Sindy called as she stopped abruptly. “Roll 11-41!”

She climbed off of her bike and ran to her partner.

“Grossie! Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he grimaced as he sat up. “Think I'm just a little banged up.”

A siren wailed to a halt as Turner stopped his black and white Crown Vic in the intersection.

“You okay, Grossie?” he asked as he jogged over.

Grossman pulled himself to his feet and brushed off his uniform.

“Some training officer I am,” he sighed.

Several blocks away, the suspect rode the stolen motorcycle into a warehouse at the end of a dead end street. The heavy door was pulled closed behind him.

The large metal building was filled with motorcycles, most of them disassembled, with the various parts strewn across tables and even on the floor. Several men in overalls worked on the different bikes scattered through the cavernous building.

“Nice! Ya brought us that Hayabusa!” laughed Nico Lopez, the man who was responsible for setting up the motorcycle theft ring. “You know how much scratch one of these can bring in!”

His partner, Dustin Lee shook his head as he stepped off of the bike.

“Couple of Chippies chased me, man,” he sighed as he slipped off his helmet. 

“What happened? I mean, you lost 'em right?” Lopez asked as he nervously ran to the window.

“Yeah, of course I lost 'em. Motor cops are squids, man. They ain't gonna catch us.”

Both men laughed uproariously. 

Meanwhile, half a mile away, Grossman angrily pulled off his helmet as he stood over his damaged motorcycle.

To Be Continued...


End file.
